Showdown

SHOWDOWN – Franklin Marsh

The three elderly men hurried across Main Street, doing their best to avoid the piles of horse manure. The short, stocky figure was first up the stairs to the Marshal’s office, the tall, bald man stumbling and being caught by the ex-actor with the dyed hair.

The shorter man waited impatiently on the wooden sidewalk, then they all burst into the Marshal’s office together.

“The Clintons are coming!” bawled the short man. “What are you gonna do about it, Marshal?”

The grey-haired custodian of the law seated behind the desk wiped up the last of the egg from his plate with a crust of bread, then pushed the soggy mess into his mouth. He sat back in his chair and observed his visitors.

“I said what are you gonna do about it, Marshal?” persisted the short man. “ The whole damn lot of ‘em are comin’, we heard. Not just Big Bill, but that wife of hiss’n. And O’Bama.”

“Fritz Mondale,” croaked the former actor.

The tall bald man tried to say something like Dukakis, but it came out garbled and indecipherable.

“Goddamn it, George! They’re un-American!”

“Easy, fellers.”

The three oldsters turned. To see a tall, lean figure framed in the doorway that led to the two cells, currently empty, in back.
“We’ll take care of it.”

The short man spluttered “You’d better. They say Locke’s with ‘em. The one the Indians call Krow.”.

The tall man thrust his groin forward, twin pearl-handled revolvers jiggling in their holsters.

“Read my hips,” he said, menacingly. “We’ll take care of it.”

The short man harrumphed, then added “And while you’re about it, do somethin’ about that weird sawbones hangin’ round Morag’s place.” He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

His two companions looked at one another, shrugged, tipped their hats to the newcomer and followed their leader.

“McCain’s got a bee in his bonnet,” said the seated Marshal, having swallowed the last of his supper.

“He’s after your job, Son,” drawled the taller lawman. A slight drumming noise invaded the following silence.

The two peace officers glanced at one another, then made for the door.

*****************

McCain glanced to his right as the trio made their way back across the dusty street toward the saloon.

“Shit.” The expletive was appropriate as his highly polished boot entered a heap of droppings. He slipped, but kept his balance.

The three oldies watched the dust cloud approaching town.

“It’s them, “ gasped McCain.

“There’s stacks of ‘em”, said the former actor, in a tone of awe.

The balding gentleman hot-footed it for the saloon batswings, tripping on the steps to the sidewalk, and crashing through the door. The other two were close behind.

?************************

The diner was quiet. Morag watched the Doctor playing patience. He was using an ornately-decorated, very unusual deck of cards, laying them out in a cruciform pattern.

There was the patter of small feet on the stairwell that led to the upper floor.

“Mom! Mom!” A little blonde whirlwind flew into the dining area.

“Riders comin’! Lots of ‘em! I seen Mr McCain and his friends come outta the Marshal’s office and..”

“Hush now, Sam. You should be in bed. Git up them stairs before I tan your hide.”

“Aw, Mom??”

“Come on now, child.”

The red-haired woman rose wearily from her chair and ushered the little girl back to the doorway.

Samantha huffed and puffed and began to stamp her way back upstairs. As Morag returned to her seat, the low drumming sound penetrated the diner.

The Cook had left the kitchen and was gazing anxiously out of the window.

“Lot o’ dust, Mizz Morag.”

Morag followed his gaze.

“Lot of trouble”, she mused.

The Doctor turned over the penultimate card. Depicted upon it was a brick tower, being struck by lightning. He smiled to himself. He knew what the last card would be.

“Morag,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“You know he’ll be with them? And her?”

Morag ignored him.

“Sam know she’s got a half-sister?”

Morag turned, her eyes blazing at the Doctor. She opened her mouth to speak.

“There’s George and his pappy,” said the Cook, sarcastically, watching the two Marshals stroll out into the Main Street from the Law Office. “Don’t know what they think they’re gonna do.”

“Lord, no more killin?”, sighed Morag, turning back to the window..

The Doctor saw the little blonde head peeking through the door, looking at him.

“Morag,” he said. “Your daughter’s still here.”

Morag whirled, in time to see the diminutive figure race up the stairwell.

The Cook walked back toward the kitchen.

“Nice flapjacks, feller,” said the Doc.

“We call ‘em pancakes round here, Mister,” supplied the Cook, as he entered his domain.

Morag watched the dust settle as the posse of riders reined in their mounts. The two Marshals stood stoically in front of them. She turned as the Cook re-entered the dining area, buckling on a gunbelt, a pump-action shotgun tucked under his arm.

“Oh, no, Autie. NO!” She placed a hand on his arm.

The Doctor turned over the final card. Death grinned up at him. He grinned back, sticking the card into the band of his top hat that sat on the clean white tablecloth. He stood up, donning the hat and walked over to where Morag and Autie stood at the window.

**************

“Howdy, George. George, “ smirked Big Bill Clinton around his cigar, nodding at the pair of Marshalls.

“Howdy, Bill. Ma’am.” The elder Marshal touched the brim of his Stetson as he nodded at the wild-eyed blonde woman next to the rancher.

“What brings you to town?”

“Our business”, snapped the woman.

“See your spiritual advisor ain’t with you,” observed the younger lawman. “Where’s Jimmy Peanuts?”

“On a mission,” supplied Bill, still grinning expansively. “He’ll be here before long. How ‘bout your spiritual advisor, boys? How’s that ol’ crook, Nick Dixon?”

“I am not a crook!”

A bizarre figure stumbled from the ever-open door of the small adobe church squatting next to the saloon, the heavy jowls blue with stubble, a virtually empty whiskey bottle in one hand.

“And I’ll thank you to call me Reverend Nixon, Slick Willie.” The last two words were spat out contemptuously.

Clinton laughed emptily, his wife’s hand strayed toward a Colt automatic at her waist..

The Reverend Nixon staggered back into the cool darkness of his church.

There was a crashing sound from the saloon, as if someone had fallen over, then the roar of a gunshot.

“Gerry, you dumb asshole!” wailed McCain.

Clinton’s cigar had disappeared. His face suffused with rage. His henchmen had all drawn their sidearms. The unexpected report had caught the Marshals by surprise, their hands empty.

Hillary Clinton drew a bead on the younger Marshal. She closed one eye and grinned.

“Welcome to Hell, Dubya.”

“Don’t call me…”

The Marshal’s reply was drowned out in the fusillade. Both Peace Officers were torn to shreds and hurled back along Main Street like bloody rags. The trigger happy cow punchers whooped and hollered, their horses bucking and skittering.

“Tear the place down!” screamed Mrs Clinton.

Morag, the Doctor and the Cook stepped back from the window as the Clinton posse began to ride up and down the Main Street firing randomly at buildings.. Little Samantha ran crying to her mother, who swept her up in her arms.

The Cook pumped the action of his shotgun and turned to the Doctor.

“Come on, man. We gotta do something!”

“They’ll come for us,” replied the Doc. “Have a little patience, boy.”

“I ain’t no boy!”

The door of the diner opened, and a man and a girl walked in.

The man wore an ankle-length duster over a black suit. He removed his hat, revealing a bald pate, and grinned at the room’s occupants.

“Morag, Doc, son. Howdy.”

The girl was also dressed in black. A short toreador jacket over a white blouse, and culottes, which allowed her to ride a horse like a man. She removed her wide-brimmed Spanish hat, and shook out her long black hair. Samantha gasped and pointed at the white streak.

“Ah, Samantha,” said the man. “You’ve grown.”

“Who are they, Mom?” queried the little girl.

“Never mind,” growled Morag. “What do you want, Locke?”

It was the girl who spoke.

“I wanted to see my sister.” She smiled, dazzlingly.

“I got a sister?”

“A half-sister,” said the Doc.

Locke barked out a short harsh laugh.

“Come on, Doc. You don’t still believe?” He slapped his thigh and threw his head back, roaring with laughter.

The Doc glanced at Morag. She was helpless under the gaze of the girl with the two-tone hair, who was reaching out for Samantha.

“How about some food, son?” Locke had turned his attention to the Cook.

“Mister, all Hell’s breakin’ loose out there, and you want somethin’ to eat?”

“Sure thing, son. Man gets mighty hungry out there on the trail. Don’t none of you worry ‘bout them Clinton owlhoots. They won’t bother us none.”

The man sat down at a nearby table, hoisting his coat clear of his revolver.
“MORAG!”

The Doc’s shout jerked the red-haired owner of the diner out of her trance.

“Stay away!” she shrieked at the girl in black, clutching Samantha more tightly to her bosom, and backing away.

“You OK, Morag?” asked the Cook.

Locke drew his revolver and shot Autie in the back. Morag and Samantha screamed as the young man flew face forward onto the sawdust covered floor.

The Doc’s arm was a blur. A Navy Colt .44 grew from his fist, spitting yellow flame. Locke grunted and dropped his pistol as a slug from the Doc’s gun shattered his right elbow. The left elbow followed, then both knees. Locke lay helplessly on the ground like an upended beetle, the sawdust around him turning red.

The Doc felt two small metal circles press against his neck.

The girl pushed the derringer deeper into the Doc’s flesh, and cocked the hammer.

“Tell her, Morag,” said the Doc, evenly.

“Lorelei.”

The girl drew breath in sharply.

“Don’t shoot him. He’s…he..he might be your father.”

“Bullshit!” spat Lorelei, venomously. “He just shot my pa!”

“It ain’t that clear cut, daughter,” said Morag, softly, cradling the sobbing Samantha.

Lorelei stared at her in amazement.

“Ma?”

The Doc felt the pressure ease on his neck, as Lorelei moved away, the tiny firearm wavering between himself and Morag.

She glanced down at the recumbent form of Locke. He seemed unconscious.

The Doc holstered his pistol.

“I was with…him”, Morag nodded at Locke, “but I was also seein’ the Doc. When you was conceived I.didn’t know. It could be either.”

“No!” snapped Lorelei. “You must know! It can’t be?”

The Doc stepped forward and punched her sharply on the chin.
“Spare the rod, “ he sighed as she slumped to the floor.

He looked helplessly at Morag.

“You mean you really don’t?”

The gunshot was thunderous in the enclosed space. Morag groaned in agony and fell to the floor, releasing her little girl as she fell.

“The family that slays together, stays together,” croaked Locke, attempting unsteadily to aim Autie’s pistol at the Doc, who pumped his two remaining bullets into the sneering face.

He carried Morag upstairs to her bed, Samantha following him, kicking his legs all the way.

He laid her down and passed his hand over the wound. Samantha couldn’t believe what she saw.

“Stay with her, Sam. She’ll be fine in the morning.”

The Doc trotted down the stairs and glanced into the dining room. Only Autie’s corpse remained.

He walked out of the diner. Although darkness had fallen many buildings were ablaze, giving the town an unearthly quality. A crowd was gathered in front of the saloon where lynchings were about to take place.

The Doc moved on to the livery stable and retrieved his mount.

Three days out from the town, just as night began to fall, he spotted a friendly looking campfire. A small wagon with two horses was nearby. As he walked up, a burly woman wiped her beard and spooned beans onto a tin plate which she handed to him.

“Did you find her, Doc?” said a hirsute, leonine figure clad in sacking.

“I lost her, Leopold,” said the Doc sadly, tucking into his beans.